In Media Res
by outruntheavalanche
Summary: ["We'd like you to start wearing the 'C' on your jersey."] Mike Lawson, Oscar Arguella, Al Luongo


No spoilers, I don't think. But it probably helps if you've seen the show and/or are familiar with baseball.

* * *

"We'd like you to start wearing the 'C' on your jersey."

Al and Oscar look at him expectantly, like they were expecting… What, for Mike to jump for joy and whip out a pair of confetti cannons?

Mike frowns. "I'm no Jason Varitek," he mutters, rolling his shoulders. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans to clench his fists.

"Well, no! But you're our Jason Varitek. You're our captain and we just think it's about time everyone out there—" Oscar waves a hand toward the panoramic view of the stands from his office "—knew it."

"What's this really about," Mike says, in his best, most practiced monotone.

Oscar frowns. Al pushes away from the desk and trundles over to Mike's side.

"Max thinks it'd be a good idea," Al says, slouching so bonelessly in the seat next to Mike that he looks like a pile of unfolded laundry. "She thinks we start selling jerseys with the 'C' patch on 'em, the org could make a pretty penny. Make you even more marketable, turn a profit, maybe. I dunno how any of that works. I'm just a ballplayer at heart, y'know?"

"So am I," Oscar retorts, even though Al hadn't even been addressing him. He frowns some more, like he just sucked down on a particularly sour lemon.

"It's gimmicky," Mike says, gripping the armrests. "I do that, everyone'll say I'm trying to be Varitek. I'm not trying to be Varitek. The reason I've never worn the 'C' is specifically to avoid comparisons to Varitek."

"Varitek's not a bad guy to be compared to, you gotta say," Oscar says, resting his elbows on some folders and a pile of papers atop his mahogany desk.

Oscar's got his own bobblehead dancing next to his left elbow, a relic from his days in the Texas League. Oscar's a good guy, knows what it takes to be a ballplayer even if he wasn't any good and hung them up after ten grueling years in the minors and only a couple cups of coffee to take a front office job. Oscar's a ballplayer, Mike trusts him.

Mike's still not gonna put a fucking 'C' on his jersey just so Maxine Armstrong can make a few extra bucks.

"Nope. Not doing it," Mike says.

Oscar sits back, crosses his arms over his chest, and sighs. "I had a feeling you'd say that."

"Didn't you relay that to Max?" he asks.

"You know that woman doesn't take no for an answer," Oscar says. "I do hope you'll reconsider."

Mike starts to get up out of his seat. He's got a ballgame to prepare for. Tommy Miller hasn't started since April and the Dodgers have an entirely new outfield whose tendencies he's gotta memorize. "So Max'll get off your ass?"

"Of course," says Oscar.

Mike pauses in front of Oscar's desk. If he cranes his neck a little bit, he could get a look at the papers littering nearly every surface, but that could be collusion or whatever, Mike's not entirely sure, so he doesn't. Instead, he curls his hand into a fist and knocks on the surface of Oscar's desk.

"If you need someone with marketability, just go get Baker. That girl's got marketability coming out the wazoo." Mike pauses, grimacing. "Was that sexist? That feels like it could've been sexist."

"We're all men here," Al says, waving a fat hand in the air.

That does nothing to reassure Mike.

"Anyway," he continues, "the camera's in love with her. They're paying a hundred bucks a pop for her autographs at signings. MLB Network wants to make a freaking biopic of her life—MLB Network!—and she's fucking twenty-three years-old. She's poised to be a breakout star. She's the one you gotta market. Not some old, washed up catcher who's barely hitting his weight."

"You do have twenty homeruns, don't sell yourself short," Oscar says, but he's already got that faraway look in his eyes, like he's moved on to his next great idea. Oscar taps a button on his phone and leans in. "Rhonda, get Amelia Slater on the line. I've got something I'd like to run past her."

Mike smiles, pleased with himself, and turns to leave. Al grabs at him on the way out and Mike looks down at him.

"That's nice of you goin' to bat for the kid like that," he says, letting go of Mike's arm.

Mike waves him off. "Don't mention it. Now, if you gentlemen don't mind? I've got a ballgame to prep for."

Oscar flaps a hand at Mike for him to go, phone cradled against his shoulder, so he goes.


End file.
